saintmurd0ck - Tumblr blog

[saintmurd0ck]

congratulations on your night girl!!!!! I'm that anon from ages ago with the chia and taro ask game thing, did you and your person finally find your way back to each other!?!?!?!? If not, you got yourself a new bae 😎🤝 NICE!!! go you, get that dick 🤪

have an awesome day!!!

hi angel!!!!! i hope you’re doing well🥺

me and that person have NOT spoken for a while unfortunately. but last night….. (putting more under the cut cause he knows about my tumblr now and i kinda wanna hide this LOL)

okay anyway so there’s this guy from work and he’s a total cutie and……. yeah last night was SO a much fucking fun 🫠💗 i’m feeling so good. way better than i was when i did that ask game. thank you so much for sliding back into my ask box, your care is SO appreciated my god

[saintmurd0ck]

y’all.

i don’t want to say that i had a NIGHT ™ last night but……….. holy fuck

if you’ll excuse me i’m gonna be in a good mood for the rest of the weekend

[saintmurd0ck]

😭😭💗 mindi that photo and your tags are absolutely sending me over here!!!!! i love you and thank you for reading 🥺 and you’re always welcome for that sweet, sweet amanda slander hehehe

RHI!!! A million congrats on 2.5k, I can't think of anyone who deserves it more 🥰 and so glad you're back and feeling ok! For the train, I'd loveee to take a trip to 86th st with Mikey Kinsella and “please, for the love of god, shut up for once.” “why don’t you come over here and make me?” i think the way you write it would be SO gorgeous and interesting ❤️ and also because im a slut, i just know id LOSE it over a stop at Heuston Station with Fratt x reader and ❛ you want gentle? wrong fucking address. ❜ Anyways I'm so so excited to read everything you do for this event 🥰 congrats again!!

all fired up

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: michael kinsella x reader

warnings: amanda slander, a tiny bit of spice (minors DNI), aggressive michael / reader, yes we're a little mean but dont worry he gets the upper hand ;)

a/n: christie my gorgeous, thank you so so so much for dropping in 🥺 i hope you like this one, and i am gonna post the fratt request in a separate ask >:) btw i am amending the prompts to better fit the characters i am writing for, so i hope you dont mind xoxo

Michael’s silent rage simmers in your periphery as he leans against the wall like a fallen angel, gritting his teeth, letting his chest rise and fall in short, controlled bursts. Everything in the room is setting him off: the clicking of your pen, the faint hum of the air-conditioner, and the distant noise of traffic from the main road. 

Unfortunately for him, you’re far from caring today; not when you’ve scraped together the business proposal of a lifetime. One that could easily retire you in the blink of an eye.

You’ve worked your ass off to coordinate this, so isn’t it only fair that Michael, being the other major stakeholder in this business, quits his grumbling? It’s as if he can’t — or won’t — comprehend what this means if this works out. If you negotiate your way through this successfully, with Michael there or not, the Kinsellas land on top. They’ll control Dublin, and possibly the whole of Ireland, with opportunities to plant roots and spread vines across all the major networks in Europe. And as you’re the only decision maker not married to — or even fucking — anyone in the family, you’ve had to prove your worth, a thousand times more so. Simply being Michael’s closest friend and confidante didn’t sit well with the others, but you’ve made yourself far more capable than anyone in this business. 

And this deal will cement you into the Kinsella hall of fame. 

You cut a glance to where he’s standing, a momentary pang of empathy softening your expression. He’s exhausted from today, and it isn’t just the circles under his eyes that demonstrate it. You know his tells better than anyone; in fact, you know him so well that just by judging his body language, you can deduce who he’s been with, what he’s been up to, and what he tries hard to conceal. Right now, and at your disdain, you can see Amanda written all over him. It’s obvious in the way he’s carrying himself, with his chin pointed downwards, the tension almost shrugging his shoulders. Even his skin gives it away, from the warmth in his cheeks to the flush at the tips of his ears. 

“Let me guess,” you sigh, breaking the silence, “Amanda thinks you’re not doin’ a good enough job, and you shouldn’t be workin’ with me?” Saying her name is enough to set you off, but you do your best to diffuse the situation, to bring Michael back to the present. 

His eyes flick to yours at the mention of her name, and you grimace inwards at the sharp stab to your gut. “Somethin’ like tha’.”

It confirms what you suspected; that he and Amanda had met up today, for purposes you try not to burden yourself with. It isn’t your business what they get up to, or how many times you notice her silhouette beyond the frosted glass of his front door. 5 times this week, and it’s only Wednesday, you think, chewing on your lip. 

Unease courses through your veins, and so you go to do what’s natural, and sweep the thoughts under the proverbial rug in your mind. You gesture at the mountain of paperwork in front of you. “Are you gonna help me, Michael?”

His only response is a delicate muscle feathering in his jaw, and for some reason, it sends a lick of angry heat up your spine. The deadline to the deal looms in front of you like a ticking time-bomb, and all he can do is stay silent, and God forbid, mope about Amanda?

Your mouth thins as you take a moment to decide if you want to add to his anguish. To deliver an insult worthy of his attention. There’s a rush that flows through you, a sick kind of satisfaction, that tug the corners of your mouth upwards. If it were Eric, or Jimmy, or even Amanda, he would’ve lost his shit by now. He’d probably have stormed out and sulked home, making sure his gun was accessible from beneath his jacket at all times. His heart would thunder in his ears, itching for a fight with some unfortunate soul who’d then be promptly taken out by none other than the Magician. 

Your voice rings out across the room, coming out more confident than you’d played out in your head. “She refuse to blow you today or what?” 

Michael’s brows furrow together. “What did you say?”

“I asked you something, Michael. Are you pissed because Amanda didn’t open her legs for you?”

His mouth twists into a sneer. “I’d stop talkin’ if I were you.”

But you return his glare, your blood thrumming with challenge. “Actually, I commend her for doin’ that. ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to fuck someone so miserable either.”

He’s in front of you in a couple of strides, seething cold fury as his voice drops an octave. When he talks, his breath fans your face. “I said stop fuckin’ talkin’.”

You swallow, feeling your chest heave as some unchecked part of you — the part that’s scared of no-one — takes over. “Or what?” You pout, cocking your head to the side. “Are you gonna run back to Amanda and tell her how mean I’ve been to you?” 

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” he spits, grabbing you by the collar, shoving you until the back of your thighs press up against the desk.

Your retort comes out just before he lowers his mouth to yours. Just before he wedges his thick hand between your legs. “Why don’t you make me?”

[saintmurd0ck]

Congratulations, rhi!! 🥳

86th st

Prompt: “why are you really here? to mock me? to... make me hate you more?” “no. none of that. i came to be a friend, because it really looks like you need one right now.”

Character: Matt Murdock

Also, I don't mind if a confession or smut is involved somehow 🤣

glass ceiling

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: matt murdock x vigilante!reader

warnings: canon typical injuries, brief mention of religion, angst, tinyyyyy confession

a/n: ok nonnie i couldn't fit the smut in cause matty low-key friendzones you in this prompt butttttt enjoy the mini confession 💗 thank you so much for participating !! (ps this is low-key unedited but hope you enjoy nevertheless)

There’s a coppery tang to the air as you drift  in and out of consciousness, akin to a wave receding upon a shore. Your eyes shutter open, unable to take stock of exactly what you’ve injured, but at least you have a faint idea of where you are, and how you ended up in this position. 

“Ow,” you wince, twisting onto your side, desperately trying to staunch the gash above your eyebrow. The pain in your side has faded to a dull throb, but a quick glance at the blood pooling beneath tells you the cut is anything but superficial. 

It’s a balmy night, but the wind dries the rivulets of sweat on your skin in cold increments. The cement rooftop is even more frigid underneath your spent body, seemingly siphoning your energy with every sawed breath. Anything remaining of your once ironclad resolve ebbs to a bare whisper. 

The constant ringing in your ears blots out your efforts in concentration, rendering your attempts to move, to sit up, utterly futile. You know your neurons stopped firing the second your assailant decided that this was the end, except the asshole didn’t even have the decency to finish the job. To make sure you wouldn’t come after him.

It was your luck he was cocky enough to leave you up here. 

You wiggle your toes, but even that action makes every muscle and bone in your body scream for help. The cracks in your defense widen to a chasm, and so you resort to basics. To your default programming.  

“Please,” you grit, jerking your chin up to the light-polluted sky, “make it quick.” 

You don’t know who you’re aiming your prayer towards, and you’re foolish enough to believe that someone would care enough to listen, to send an aide, but you hope nevertheless that it catches the attention of some benevolent force, deity or not.

The peals of a police siren shatters your  fantasy, making you whip your head to the side. Instead, it speeds off into the distance, carrying with it any last fragments of survival. 

This is it, you think. This is how I go. 

That’s not what happens, though.

As you settle into the ground, your fingers coming away sticky from the laceration in your side, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stick up. A warning, maybe, but you’re too fatigued to tell. Still, it alerts you, causing your arduous eyes to widen.

Your head smacks the concrete listlessly, because all you see is the skyline of the city stabbing into the indigo sky, the lights haloing your vision. Jutting out amongst the landscape are the spires of a church, lackluster compared to the twinkling highrises. Your mouth contorts into a grimace at the irony it presents.

The lack of discovery doesn’t explain why goosebumps continue to prickle your skin, or why you hear the rustle of fabric carried with the wind — the sound too soft to notice to the untrained, unobservant ear. 

There. A glimmer of movement catches your eye, a crimson shadow dancing in and out of your sight. 

Out of the vestiges of darkness, a saviour emerges.

Him.

Matt bounds towards you, closing the distance in four short strides. He falls to his knees beside you, hands scrambling to triage your body. 

His expression goes grim, sweat forming a thin sheen along the exposed part of his face as he speaks. “This isn’t good.”

Your weak chuckle turns into a wet rasp. “Tell me the other guy got off worse, at least.”

Matt pauses for a moment, his tongue flicking out at the corner of his mouth. His voice dips to a murmur. “He’ll never make that mistake again.”

You nod slowly, training your gaze on Matt as he takes off his helmet, setting it down on the concrete before putting pressure on the wound in your side. White hot pain blossoms throughout your nerve endings, exploding behind your eyes, but he ignores any markers of your discomfort. 

Gritting your teeth, you lift one of your arms to push the lock of hair that’s fallen across his forehead. There’s an inexplicable familiarity about the gesture, even though you haven’t seen him in months. Even though your final encounter was precisely that: your last. 

“I thought you said I had to get out of your way, Matt.”

“I know,” he says, his face irresolute.

“Then why are you really here?” Your mouth twists into a scowl as you shrug his hands away, blinking away the tears welling in your eyes. “To mock me, for coming back to Hell’s Kitchen? To… make me hate you more?”

Something between disconcertion and indignation crosses his face. “What? No. None of that.” He wrestles you back down, compressing his hand over the wound again. “I came to be a friend. Because it really looks like you need one right now.”

You hold onto his words, acquiescing his comfort, his company, but all that comes out is an incoherently grumbled response, one that pulses in time with your darkening vision. It’s as if the second he showed up, your body has finally relinquished to the tranquility of rest, knowing that despite your past, Matt is someone to be trusted. 

Agony radiates throughout your body as he hoists you up over his shoulder, your heart fluttering at the gentleness of his touches, the soft cadence of his voice. You barely comprehend what he’s saying, but you cling onto “apartment” and “I’ll look after you”, like a beacon of hope. God-sent, if you consider your prayers answered. 

There’s something else you catch as you’re dragged under. He’s talking to you, soothing you, settling you. It feels like he’s explaining something to you, but whether it’s for him to get it off his chest, or simply to lull  you to sleep is indistinguishable. Yet, your attempt continues to listen. 

“I never wanted you in my way,” he starts, slowly becoming a jumble of noise, “because I was falling in love with you.”

But you’re too tired to contest him. To ask if he’s confessing that because you’re on your deathbed, or if they’re pointless words, said just to appease. 

“I heard when you called,” he finishes. “I always do.”

[saintmurd0ck]

aaaaaaand we’re closed! thank you so much to everyone who participated, i am very very keen for all of you to see what i come up with 🥹🫶🏻 i feel so lucky to have celebrated such a wonderful milestone with the best people on the internet x

step aboard the saintmurd0ck express with a one-way ticket (multiple stops included) to see your favourites, across the world and across the galaxy! it may be a belated celebration, but it's a better time than never to unveil the newest subway station... connecting you to your dreams.

grab a ticket, sit tight and enjoy!

this will run from 12 AM AEST (10 AM EST) on September 24 for 1 week (closing on October 1) 💗

this is an 18+ event only, and anonymous asks/requests must abide by my request guidelines

To buy a ticket, please select your destination, choose a prompt, and decide who will meet you on the other side.

*Multiple stops and poly pairings are very welcome!

🚇 34th St-Hudson Yards: romantic confession

🚇 86th St: enemies to lovers

🚂 Atlantic City: domestic intimacy

🚈 Heuston Station, Dublin: i want you, so badly

✈️ Jedi Temple Hangar: folklore-inspired angst

characters include: matt murdock, frank castle, michael kinsella, charlie luciano, owen sleater, anakin skywalker

completed submissions | masterlist below

la douleur exquise - owen sleater x reader - 34th St-Hudson Yards and 86th St

all fired up - michael kinsella x reader - 86th St

[saintmurd0ck]

The self concept work is something I’ve never thought about and will def be looking into/doing. If he has a gf I’m gonna find something about him that gives me the ick so I can move past this lmao. Buttttttt I really hope he doesn’t bc he’s so easy to have a conversation with and can make me laugh hard enough to nearly start crying.

Thank you for the advice! Ilysm ur like my favorite person I’ve interacted with on this site. I promise to update u as soon as I have anything!💙💙

-🪐

self-concept work is a fucking game changer. i am a highly, highly spiritual person & believe (at least for me, personally) that my world is a reflection of my thoughts and what i believe about myself. so, if i believe that i am beautiful, i am worthy, i am deserving of my desires, it actually spreads to everyone around you. it's an incredible thing to practice!

anyway my love, i am wishing you allllll the best and i am right here to help you in whatever way i can, whether we need to pick up the pieces and move on or devise a genius gameplan to get him wrapped around your fingers 🫠💗 thank you for being so kind, you are absolutely wonderful and i have no doubt that him getting to love you would be an honour on his part ✨

[saintmurd0ck]

okay but tell me why he would look so sexy being angry and all flustered 🫠🫣 i’m so glad you liked this hehehehe love you

RHI!!! A million congrats on 2.5k, I can't think of anyone who deserves it more 🥰 and so glad you're back and feeling ok! For the train, I'd loveee to take a trip to 86th st with Mikey Kinsella and “please, for the love of god, shut up for once.” “why don’t you come over here and make me?” i think the way you write it would be SO gorgeous and interesting ❤️ and also because im a slut, i just know id LOSE it over a stop at Heuston Station with Fratt x reader and ❛ you want gentle? wrong fucking address. ❜ Anyways I'm so so excited to read everything you do for this event 🥰 congrats again!!

all fired up

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: michael kinsella x reader

warnings: amanda slander, a tiny bit of spice (minors DNI), aggressive michael / reader, yes we're a little mean but dont worry he gets the upper hand ;)

a/n: christie my gorgeous, thank you so so so much for dropping in 🥺 i hope you like this one, and i am gonna post the fratt request in a separate ask >:) btw i am amending the prompts to better fit the characters i am writing for, so i hope you dont mind xoxo

Michael’s silent rage simmers in your periphery as he leans against the wall like a fallen angel, gritting his teeth, letting his chest rise and fall in short, controlled bursts. Everything in the room is setting him off: the clicking of your pen, the faint hum of the air-conditioner, and the distant noise of traffic from the main road. 

Unfortunately for him, you’re far from caring today; not when you’ve scraped together the business proposal of a lifetime. One that could easily retire you in the blink of an eye.

You’ve worked your ass off to coordinate this, so isn’t it only fair that Michael, being the other major stakeholder in this business, quits his grumbling? It’s as if he can’t — or won’t — comprehend what this means if this works out. If you negotiate your way through this successfully, with Michael there or not, the Kinsellas land on top. They’ll control Dublin, and possibly the whole of Ireland, with opportunities to plant roots and spread vines across all the major networks in Europe. And as you’re the only decision maker not married to — or even fucking — anyone in the family, you’ve had to prove your worth, a thousand times more so. Simply being Michael’s closest friend and confidante didn’t sit well with the others, but you’ve made yourself far more capable than anyone in this business. 

And this deal will cement you into the Kinsella hall of fame. 

You cut a glance to where he’s standing, a momentary pang of empathy softening your expression. He’s exhausted from today, and it isn’t just the circles under his eyes that demonstrate it. You know his tells better than anyone; in fact, you know him so well that just by judging his body language, you can deduce who he’s been with, what he’s been up to, and what he tries hard to conceal. Right now, and at your disdain, you can see Amanda written all over him. It’s obvious in the way he’s carrying himself, with his chin pointed downwards, the tension almost shrugging his shoulders. Even his skin gives it away, from the warmth in his cheeks to the flush at the tips of his ears. 

“Let me guess,” you sigh, breaking the silence, “Amanda thinks you’re not doin’ a good enough job, and you shouldn’t be workin’ with me?” Saying her name is enough to set you off, but you do your best to diffuse the situation, to bring Michael back to the present. 

His eyes flick to yours at the mention of her name, and you grimace inwards at the sharp stab to your gut. “Somethin’ like tha’.”

It confirms what you suspected; that he and Amanda had met up today, for purposes you try not to burden yourself with. It isn’t your business what they get up to, or how many times you notice her silhouette beyond the frosted glass of his front door. 5 times this week, and it’s only Wednesday, you think, chewing on your lip. 

Unease courses through your veins, and so you go to do what’s natural, and sweep the thoughts under the proverbial rug in your mind. You gesture at the mountain of paperwork in front of you. “Are you gonna help me, Michael?”

His only response is a delicate muscle feathering in his jaw, and for some reason, it sends a lick of angry heat up your spine. The deadline to the deal looms in front of you like a ticking time-bomb, and all he can do is stay silent, and God forbid, mope about Amanda?

Your mouth thins as you take a moment to decide if you want to add to his anguish. To deliver an insult worthy of his attention. There’s a rush that flows through you, a sick kind of satisfaction, that tug the corners of your mouth upwards. If it were Eric, or Jimmy, or even Amanda, he would’ve lost his shit by now. He’d probably have stormed out and sulked home, making sure his gun was accessible from beneath his jacket at all times. His heart would thunder in his ears, itching for a fight with some unfortunate soul who’d then be promptly taken out by none other than the Magician. 

Your voice rings out across the room, coming out more confident than you’d played out in your head. “She refuse to blow you today or what?” 

Michael’s brows furrow together. “What did you say?”

“I asked you something, Michael. Are you pissed because Amanda didn’t open her legs for you?”

His mouth twists into a sneer. “I’d stop talkin’ if I were you.”

But you return his glare, your blood thrumming with challenge. “Actually, I commend her for doin’ that. ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to fuck someone so miserable either.”

He’s in front of you in a couple of strides, seeding cold fury as his voice drops an octave. When he talks, his breath fans your face. “I said stop fuckin’ talkin’.”

You swallow, feeling your chest heave as some unchecked part of you — the part that’s scared of no-one — takes over. “Or what?” You pout, cocking your head to the side. “Are you gonna run back to Amanda and tell her how mean I’ve been to you?” 

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” he spits, grabbing you by the collar, shoving you until the back of your thighs press up against the desk.

Your retort comes out just before he lowers his mouth to yours. Just before he wedges his thick hand between your legs. “Why don’t you make me?”

[saintmurd0ck]

RHI!!! A million congrats on 2.5k, I can't think of anyone who deserves it more 🥰 and so glad you're back and feeling ok! For the train, I'd loveee to take a trip to 86th st with Mikey Kinsella and “please, for the love of god, shut up for once.” “why don’t you come over here and make me?” i think the way you write it would be SO gorgeous and interesting ❤️ and also because im a slut, i just know id LOSE it over a stop at Heuston Station with Fratt x reader and ❛ you want gentle? wrong fucking address. ❜ Anyways I'm so so excited to read everything you do for this event 🥰 congrats again!!

all fired up

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: michael kinsella x reader

warnings: amanda slander, a tiny bit of spice (minors DNI), aggressive michael / reader, yes we're a little mean but dont worry he gets the upper hand ;)

a/n: christie my gorgeous, thank you so so so much for dropping in 🥺 i hope you like this one, and i am gonna post the fratt request in a separate ask >:) btw i am amending the prompts to better fit the characters i am writing for, so i hope you dont mind xoxo

Michael’s silent rage simmers in your periphery as he leans against the wall like a fallen angel, gritting his teeth, letting his chest rise and fall in short, controlled bursts. Everything in the room is setting him off: the clicking of your pen, the faint hum of the air-conditioner, and the distant noise of traffic from the main road. 

Unfortunately for him, you’re far from caring today; not when you’ve scraped together the business proposal of a lifetime. One that could easily retire you in the blink of an eye.

You’ve worked your ass off to coordinate this, so isn’t it only fair that Michael, being the other major stakeholder in this business, quits his grumbling? It’s as if he can’t — or won’t — comprehend what this means if this works out. If you negotiate your way through this successfully, with Michael there or not, the Kinsellas land on top. They’ll control Dublin, and possibly the whole of Ireland, with opportunities to plant roots and spread vines across all the major networks in Europe. And as you’re the only decision maker not married to — or even fucking — anyone in the family, you’ve had to prove your worth, a thousand times more so. Simply being Michael’s closest friend and confidante didn’t sit well with the others, but you’ve made yourself far more capable than anyone in this business. 

And this deal will cement you into the Kinsella hall of fame. 

You cut a glance to where he’s standing, a momentary pang of empathy softening your expression. He’s exhausted from today, and it isn’t just the circles under his eyes that demonstrate it. You know his tells better than anyone; in fact, you know him so well that just by judging his body language, you can deduce who he’s been with, what he’s been up to, and what he tries hard to conceal. Right now, and at your disdain, you can see Amanda written all over him. It’s obvious in the way he’s carrying himself, with his chin pointed downwards, the tension almost shrugging his shoulders. Even his skin gives it away, from the warmth in his cheeks to the flush at the tips of his ears. 

“Let me guess,” you sigh, breaking the silence, “Amanda thinks you’re not doin’ a good enough job, and you shouldn’t be workin’ with me?” Saying her name is enough to set you off, but you do your best to diffuse the situation, to bring Michael back to the present. 

His eyes flick to yours at the mention of her name, and you grimace inwards at the sharp stab to your gut. “Somethin’ like tha’.”

It confirms what you suspected; that he and Amanda had met up today, for purposes you try not to burden yourself with. It isn’t your business what they get up to, or how many times you notice her silhouette beyond the frosted glass of his front door. 5 times this week, and it’s only Wednesday, you think, chewing on your lip. 

Unease courses through your veins, and so you go to do what’s natural, and sweep the thoughts under the proverbial rug in your mind. You gesture at the mountain of paperwork in front of you. “Are you gonna help me, Michael?”

His only response is a delicate muscle feathering in his jaw, and for some reason, it sends a lick of angry heat up your spine. The deadline to the deal looms in front of you like a ticking time-bomb, and all he can do is stay silent, and God forbid, mope about Amanda?

Your mouth thins as you take a moment to decide if you want to add to his anguish. To deliver an insult worthy of his attention. There’s a rush that flows through you, a sick kind of satisfaction, that tug the corners of your mouth upwards. If it were Eric, or Jimmy, or even Amanda, he would’ve lost his shit by now. He’d probably have stormed out and sulked home, making sure his gun was accessible from beneath his jacket at all times. His heart would thunder in his ears, itching for a fight with some unfortunate soul who’d then be promptly taken out by none other than the Magician. 

Your voice rings out across the room, coming out more confident than you’d played out in your head. “She refuse to blow you today or what?” 

Michael’s brows furrow together. “What did you say?”

“I asked you something, Michael. Are you pissed because Amanda didn’t open her legs for you?”

His mouth twists into a sneer. “I’d stop talkin’ if I were you.”

But you return his glare, your blood thrumming with challenge. “Actually, I commend her for doin’ that. ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to fuck someone so miserable either.”

He’s in front of you in a couple of strides, seething cold fury as his voice drops an octave. When he talks, his breath fans your face. “I said stop fuckin’ talkin’.”

You swallow, feeling your chest heave as some unchecked part of you — the part that’s scared of no-one — takes over. “Or what?” You pout, cocking your head to the side. “Are you gonna run back to Amanda and tell her how mean I’ve been to you?” 

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” he spits, grabbing you by the collar, shoving you until the back of your thighs press up against the desk.

Your retort comes out just before he lowers his mouth to yours. Just before he wedges his thick hand between your legs. “Why don’t you make me?”

[saintmurd0ck]

RHI MY LOVE, MY DARLING!!!! Congrats on 2,500!!!!! You are such an incredible writer, you have such a talent from bringing characters to life, and I’m so so happy and lucky that I get to call you a friend💜💜💜💜

thank you so so so much my lovely kristen, i love you and i feel so lucky to have you as my friend 🥺 i am feeling such an overwhelming sense of love and connection from this entire event and it's brought a little light back to my eyes, honestly! sending you all my love <3

[saintmurd0ck]

the sleepover ends tomorrow my lovelies! i am eagerly working on all of your wonderful requests, and they will come out over the next few weeks depending on how quickly i get through them <3 one more day to get your submissions in!!!

step aboard the saintmurd0ck express with a one-way ticket (multiple stops included) to see your favourites, across the world and across the galaxy! it may be a belated celebration, but it's a better time than never to unveil the newest subway station... connecting you to your dreams.

grab a ticket, sit tight and enjoy!

this will run from 12 AM AEST (10 AM EST) on September 24 for 1 week (closing on October 1) 💗

this is an 18+ event only, and anonymous asks/requests must abide by my request guidelines

To buy a ticket, please select your destination, choose a prompt, and decide who will meet you on the other side.

*Multiple stops and poly pairings are very welcome!

🚇 34th St-Hudson Yards: romantic confession

🚇 86th St: enemies to lovers

🚂 Atlantic City: domestic intimacy

🚈 Heuston Station, Dublin: i want you, so badly

✈️ Jedi Temple Hangar: folklore-inspired angst

characters include: matt murdock, frank castle, michael kinsella, charlie luciano, owen sleater, anakin skywalker

completed submissions | masterlist below

la douleur exquise - owen sleater x reader - 34th St-Hudson Yards and 86th St

[saintmurd0ck]

Omg It’s me 🪐 again! Im so sorry I was at work when I wrote my original message and just realized how dramatically serious it sounded 🤦🏻‍♀️ im so embarrassed now lol. I’ve been keeping this silly ass secret for weeks and am gonna explode if I don’t tell someone. I just have a crush on someone I shouldn’t mainly bc we work together but im also 90% sure he’s got a gf already but im like sooooo into him and feel like im trying to hard to keep it cool.

Sorry again for any concern I’ve caused by being in work mode 😅

Also I don’t mind airing my anon business in public the more who have opinions the better I guess lol

did i ghost-write this? lmao 😭🫡

i'm so honoured that you trust me with your secret, i feel very privileged and cool that you trust me with advice too! work relationships are... dicey to say the least, because there are a million ways that things may not work out, but both as a hopeless romantic and a whore, i would go for it, ONLY if he is single. if he does have a gf, abort mission!!!!!!!

i completely understand the thrill of the attraction, especially when the slow burn is burning. i know what it feels like to have those butterflies, to be flustered all the time even thinking about the person, let alone when they are in the same room (or sitting opposite).

the best thing you can do, i think, is to try and find out firstly if he has a gf. if he does, you know what to do. if he's single... well, please know i am rubbing my lil rat hands together and working my magic. i would advise that you play it cool in the sense that you do some self-concept work -- affirming that you're desirable, that you are brilliant just by being you, and i find that the best relationships (hookups or otherwise) arise from this whole notion. what i mean is, you're so sure of yourself that you're not connecting your worth to another man, and that you have that air of confidence (all while crushing on him inside) which you can channel into the flirting and banter. then... what's meant to happen will!!!!

you got this babe, and i am so fucking invested so pleaseeeee keep me updated!!!

[saintmurd0ck]

Rhi! Hope ur doing well 💙 I need to tell someone something and want to know if I can tell you? I didn’t wanna just drop it before asking. idk if you do emoji anons but if you do can I be 🪐

hey angel! of course you can tell me anything! i've added to you to my emoji anon list, but if you prefer to keep it private i'm so happy for you to DM me, but i'm here for you <3 what's going on, are you ok?

[saintmurd0ck]

awwwww mindi my darling i was so hoping you'd see this as the other mrs sleater 🥺 i'm finally watching boardwalk and my god he is so fucking cute i can't take it!!!! i'm so happy i got to give him a happy ending <333 thank you for reading, gorgeous!

I’m unsure if multiple stops is done this way >< buuuuut 🎟️ ticket for 🚇 34th St-Hudson Yards ("for years i have yearned for you, in secrecy and silence.") and 🚇 86th St (“you bring out the good in me.”) with Owen Sleater please! I’m dying 4 more content about this boiii!!

la douleur exquise

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: owen sleater x reader

warnings: kinda unrequited love (ISH), angsty owen, hurt + comfort

a/n: thank you SO much for being my first sleepover ask! this was so heartbreakingly beautiful to write, and as this is my first ever owen piece, i hope you enjoy 💗 (p.s. tagging mrs sleater, @murdock-and-the-sea)

There’s a breezeblock sinking deep into your stomach as Owen reaches for the coat that’s lived on the hatstand for the past two years. It never mattered that the hatstand sat empty most of the time; not when you always knew he was coming back. 

But today is different.

You barely register the sense of melancholic dread coursing through you, spreading outwards from the centre of your chest. Not when there are a million little things running through the abyss of your mind.

It feels like you’re gasping for air as you take in a staggering breath, doing your best to cast aside the unease carving his initials into your heart. Your voice cracks when you speak, and with it, any attempts you’ve made to ground yourself. “All packed?”

Owen’s lips twitch upwards as he nods, tightening his grip on the brim of his hat.

You’ve known for a while that this day would come, when he would inevitably have to leave Atlantic City. To go home, as he would fondly say. Home being Ireland. 

Not here. 

It couldn’t be here, unless Owen could resign himself to a life working for Nucky, being his right-hand man at best, but doing nothing else except taking orders and cutting down anyone who would get in the way. 

You swallow thickly, tears prickling your eyes as his fingers close around the door handle. You imagine instead that his hand moves away, a man on a mission to seek out his love, but he turns towards you not to then press his lips against your own, but to angle his body towards the promise of his exit. “Ma’am.”

You draw in a breath, wanting to say something, anything, to fill the now-awkward space between you. The fact that nothing comes out shatters something whole within you. He’s reverting back to your old pleasantries, because you’re more strangers-than-not, and now, you’ll have to remember him for longer than you’ve known him.

“Mr. Sleater,” you call out from your place on the stairs, not caring that the words catch in your throat, “You needn’t address me like that.” 

There’s a hitch in every syllable, one that wedges and distorts the sound coming from your mouth. But you keep going. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d call me by name. And don’t you say it’s because of manners.” 

You wait a moment. “I know you’re not capable of manners, Owen.” You let his name roll off your tongue, and for some reason, it’s this instance that feels more indulgent than any other time you’ve used it. It reminds you that you’ve grown fond of his temporary permanence, and even then, fond is too austere a word. 

He smiles sadly. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll be goin’ now.” The words echo in your mind even before he says them. “And I don’t know when I’ll be back.” 

He turns the handle, and he’s gone in an instant; so quickly and without further goodbye you would think he’s otherwise vanished into thin air. It doesn’t surprise you all that much, because that’s how it’s always been with Owen: a man of few words, always leaving without a trace. 

It all becomes unbearable too fast as you watch the sunlight filtering into the foyer, the spot where he stood now agonisingly empty. You stare fixedly at nothing in particular, replaying his words in your head, unable to do anything but bring a fist to your mouth to stifle the oncoming rainstorm. 

As you make your way up the stairs, turning your back to the lingering ghost of Owen’s solid form, it hits you that this is what goodbye feels like. This is what it means to farewell something that could’ve worked out, if only you’d properly tried. Your knuckles whiten around the wooden banister, clutching it so tightly it’s a wonder you’re not rooted to the spot, able to move upwards at all. But you trudge onwards, shoving down every hint of his smile, his scent and his warmth, as deep as it’ll go. 

Muscle memory leads you to the edge of the bed, and you sink down onto the mattress, rumpling the crisp sheets. Good, you think, let me stay here. Let me be consumed by the inordinate grief I carry for a man who was never mine. 

It’s then that you feel the dam break, washing away your hardened resolve and with it, two years of missed opportunities and what seems like wasted yearning. Part of you screams that it’s no use dwelling on what could’ve been, but you allow yourself that luxury, if nothing but to live in delusion for just a little more. Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror doesn’t do much to help your case; not with your glassily dejected expression, your leaden limbs that hang by your side. 

“All this,” you murmur aloud, your eyes fluttering closed, “for someone who never loved you back.” 

You mull over your thoughts so forcefully that you almost miss the response. 

“Is that what you really think?”

Your body goes rigid at the sound of his voice, your frantic gaze widening as you clock him standing by the door. His name comes out as a squeak, but you say it nonetheless. “Owen?”

He jerks his chin at you, taking a step forwards, his coat and hat markedly draped over the banister. “Now who said I didn’t love you back? Nucky?”

You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Instead, you purse your lips together, praying that the shallow rise and fall of your chest is noticeable to none other than yourself. 

But it’s Owen, and nothing goes over his head. He fixates on your breathing, hyper-aware at the effect his reappearance has had on you, or more accurately, the implication laying heavy in his tone. 

He walks in, rubbing his face as he paces in front of you. He grits his teeth as he speaks, his voice dropping an octave. “For years,” he starts, seething in anguish, “I have yearned for you, in secrecy and in silence. Years.” He lets out a small, sarcastic chuckle, but the pain laid bare in his eyes fool no-one. “I have thought every day of how to tell you.”

You feel like keeling over, but this isn’t the time. Gathering whatever’s left of your internal strength, you push up off the bed to get to your feet to face him. 

Owen blinks at you, his expression inscrutable. “You bring out the good in me.”

You don’t know what this means — about whether  he’ll stay or go, but you cast aside any reservations, choosing instead to focus on the matter at hand. 

“Do you love me?” you ask, unwavering. 

“Yes.”

You drop to a whisper, taking one of his hands into your own, brushing over every callous with your thumb. You’ve never known how to say anything to him about how you feel, but his candor sparks a light, but you know what you say next is the irrevocable truth. 

“Then I am yours, Mr. Sleater. I am yours until the world — my life — decides otherwise.”

[saintmurd0ck]

awwww thank you so much for your support!! i appreciate people who read esp if they aren’t reading what’s in their fandom 🥺💗 and ofc i had to have a happy ending, i’m not in the mood to ruin lives right now hahahahaha

I’m unsure if multiple stops is done this way >< buuuuut 🎟️ ticket for 🚇 34th St-Hudson Yards ("for years i have yearned for you, in secrecy and silence.") and 🚇 86th St (“you bring out the good in me.”) with Owen Sleater please! I’m dying 4 more content about this boiii!!

la douleur exquise

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: owen sleater x reader

warnings: kinda unrequited love (ISH), angsty owen, hurt + comfort

a/n: thank you SO much for being my first sleepover ask! this was so heartbreakingly beautiful to write, and as this is my first ever owen piece, i hope you enjoy 💗 (p.s. tagging mrs sleater, @murdock-and-the-sea)

There’s a breezeblock sinking deep into your stomach as Owen reaches for the coat that’s lived on the hatstand for the past two years. It never mattered that the hatstand sat empty most of the time; not when you always knew he was coming back. 

But today is different.

You barely register the sense of melancholic dread coursing through you, spreading outwards from the centre of your chest. Not when there are a million little things running through the abyss of your mind.

It feels like you’re gasping for air as you take in a staggering breath, doing your best to cast aside the unease carving his initials into your heart. Your voice cracks when you speak, and with it, any attempts you’ve made to ground yourself. “All packed?”

Owen’s lips twitch upwards as he nods, tightening his grip on the brim of his hat.

You’ve known for a while that this day would come, when he would inevitably have to leave Atlantic City. To go home, as he would fondly say. Home being Ireland. 

Not here. 

It couldn’t be here, unless Owen could resign himself to a life working for Nucky, being his right-hand man at best, but doing nothing else except taking orders and cutting down anyone who would get in the way. 

You swallow thickly, tears prickling your eyes as his fingers close around the door handle. You imagine instead that his hand moves away, a man on a mission to seek out his love, but he turns towards you not to then press his lips against your own, but to angle his body towards the promise of his exit. “Ma’am.”

You draw in a breath, wanting to say something, anything, to fill the now-awkward space between you. The fact that nothing comes out shatters something whole within you. He’s reverting back to your old pleasantries, because you’re more strangers-than-not, and now, you’ll have to remember him for longer than you’ve known him.

“Mr. Sleater,” you call out from your place on the stairs, not caring that the words catch in your throat, “You needn’t address me like that.” 

There’s a hitch in every syllable, one that wedges and distorts the sound coming from your mouth. But you keep going. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d call me by name. And don’t you say it’s because of manners.” 

You wait a moment. “I know you’re not capable of manners, Owen.” You let his name roll off your tongue, and for some reason, it’s this instance that feels more indulgent than any other time you’ve used it. It reminds you that you’ve grown fond of his temporary permanence, and even then, fond is too austere a word. 

He smiles sadly. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll be goin’ now.” The words echo in your mind even before he says them. “And I don’t know when I’ll be back.” 

He turns the handle, and he’s gone in an instant; so quickly and without further goodbye you would think he’s otherwise vanished into thin air. It doesn’t surprise you all that much, because that’s how it’s always been with Owen: a man of few words, always leaving without a trace. 

It all becomes unbearable too fast as you watch the sunlight filtering into the foyer, the spot where he stood now agonisingly empty. You stare fixedly at nothing in particular, replaying his words in your head, unable to do anything but bring a fist to your mouth to stifle the oncoming rainstorm. 

As you make your way up the stairs, turning your back to the lingering ghost of Owen’s solid form, it hits you that this is what goodbye feels like. This is what it means to farewell something that could’ve worked out, if only you’d properly tried. Your knuckles whiten around the wooden banister, clutching it so tightly it’s a wonder you’re not rooted to the spot, able to move upwards at all. But you trudge onwards, shoving down every hint of his smile, his scent and his warmth, as deep as it’ll go. 

Muscle memory leads you to the edge of the bed, and you sink down onto the mattress, rumpling the crisp sheets. Good, you think, let me stay here. Let me be consumed by the inordinate grief I carry for a man who was never mine. 

It’s then that you feel the dam break, washing away your hardened resolve and with it, two years of missed opportunities and what seems like wasted yearning. Part of you screams that it’s no use dwelling on what could’ve been, but you allow yourself that luxury, if nothing but to live in delusion for just a little more. Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror doesn’t do much to help your case; not with your glassily dejected expression, your leaden limbs that hang by your side. 

“All this,” you murmur aloud, your eyes fluttering closed, “for someone who never loved you back.” 

You mull over your thoughts so forcefully that you almost miss the response. 

“Is that what you really think?”

Your body goes rigid at the sound of his voice, your frantic gaze widening as you clock him standing by the door. His name comes out as a squeak, but you say it nonetheless. “Owen?”

He jerks his chin at you, taking a step forwards, his coat and hat markedly draped over the banister. “Now who said I didn’t love you back? Nucky?”

You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Instead, you purse your lips together, praying that the shallow rise and fall of your chest is noticeable to none other than yourself. 

But it’s Owen, and nothing goes over his head. He fixates on your breathing, hyper-aware at the effect his reappearance has had on you, or more accurately, the implication laying heavy in his tone. 

He walks in, rubbing his face as he paces in front of you. He grits his teeth as he speaks, his voice dropping an octave. “For years,” he starts, seething in anguish, “I have yearned for you, in secrecy and in silence. Years.” He lets out a small, sarcastic chuckle, but the pain laid bare in his eyes fool no-one. “I have thought every day of how to tell you.”

You feel like keeling over, but this isn’t the time. Gathering whatever’s left of your internal strength, you push up off the bed to get to your feet to face him. 

Owen blinks at you, his expression inscrutable. “You bring out the good in me.”

You don’t know what this means — about whether  he’ll stay or go, but you cast aside any reservations, choosing instead to focus on the matter at hand. 

“Do you love me?” you ask, unwavering. 

“Yes.”

You drop to a whisper, taking one of his hands into your own, brushing over every callous with your thumb. You’ve never known how to say anything to him about how you feel, but his candor sparks a light, but you know what you say next is the irrevocable truth. 

“Then I am yours, Mr. Sleater. I am yours until the world — my life — decides otherwise.”

[saintmurd0ck]

we’re halfway through! thank you to everyone who has sent in their asks… i’m working through them one by one and SO excited for you to see what i write 🫶🏻😉

step aboard the saintmurd0ck express with a one-way ticket (multiple stops included) to see your favourites, across the world and across the galaxy! it may be a belated celebration, but it's a better time than never to unveil the newest subway station... connecting you to your dreams.

grab a ticket, sit tight and enjoy!

this will run from 12 AM AEST (10 AM EST) on September 24 for 1 week (closing on October 1) 💗

this is an 18+ event only, and anonymous asks/requests must abide by my request guidelines

To buy a ticket, please select your destination, choose a prompt, and decide who will meet you on the other side.

*Multiple stops and poly pairings are very welcome!

🚇 34th St-Hudson Yards: romantic confession

🚇 86th St: enemies to lovers

🚂 Atlantic City: domestic intimacy

🚈 Heuston Station, Dublin: i want you, so badly

✈️ Jedi Temple Hangar: folklore-inspired angst

characters include: matt murdock, frank castle, michael kinsella, charlie luciano, owen sleater, anakin skywalker

completed submissions | masterlist below

la douleur exquise - owen sleater x reader - 34th St-Hudson Yards and 86th St

[saintmurd0ck]

of course i had to write in a happy ending, otherwise you’d be on the first plane over 💀😭 owen darling deserves to have a big romantic confession, assuming he stops being a lil sleaze first hahahaha

I’m unsure if multiple stops is done this way >< buuuuut 🎟️ ticket for 🚇 34th St-Hudson Yards ("for years i have yearned for you, in secrecy and silence.") and 🚇 86th St (“you bring out the good in me.”) with Owen Sleater please! I’m dying 4 more content about this boiii!!

la douleur exquise

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: owen sleater x reader

warnings: kinda unrequited love (ISH), angsty owen, hurt + comfort

a/n: thank you SO much for being my first sleepover ask! this was so heartbreakingly beautiful to write, and as this is my first ever owen piece, i hope you enjoy 💗 (p.s. tagging mrs sleater, @murdock-and-the-sea)

There’s a breezeblock sinking deep into your stomach as Owen reaches for the coat that’s lived on the hatstand for the past two years. It never mattered that the hatstand sat empty most of the time; not when you always knew he was coming back. 

But today is different.

You barely register the sense of melancholic dread coursing through you, spreading outwards from the centre of your chest. Not when there are a million little things running through the abyss of your mind.

It feels like you’re gasping for air as you take in a staggering breath, doing your best to cast aside the unease carving his initials into your heart. Your voice cracks when you speak, and with it, any attempts you’ve made to ground yourself. “All packed?”

Owen’s lips twitch upwards as he nods, tightening his grip on the brim of his hat.

You’ve known for a while that this day would come, when he would inevitably have to leave Atlantic City. To go home, as he would fondly say. Home being Ireland. 

Not here. 

It couldn’t be here, unless Owen could resign himself to a life working for Nucky, being his right-hand man at best, but doing nothing else except taking orders and cutting down anyone who would get in the way. 

You swallow thickly, tears prickling your eyes as his fingers close around the door handle. You imagine instead that his hand moves away, a man on a mission to seek out his love, but he turns towards you not to then press his lips against your own, but to angle his body towards the promise of his exit. “Ma’am.”

You draw in a breath, wanting to say something, anything, to fill the now-awkward space between you. The fact that nothing comes out shatters something whole within you. He’s reverting back to your old pleasantries, because you’re more strangers-than-not, and now, you’ll have to remember him for longer than you’ve known him.

“Mr. Sleater,” you call out from your place on the stairs, not caring that the words catch in your throat, “You needn’t address me like that.” 

There’s a hitch in every syllable, one that wedges and distorts the sound coming from your mouth. But you keep going. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d call me by name. And don’t you say it’s because of manners.” 

You wait a moment. “I know you’re not capable of manners, Owen.” You let his name roll off your tongue, and for some reason, it’s this instance that feels more indulgent than any other time you’ve used it. It reminds you that you’ve grown fond of his temporary permanence, and even then, fond is too austere a word. 

He smiles sadly. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll be goin’ now.” The words echo in your mind even before he says them. “And I don’t know when I’ll be back.” 

He turns the handle, and he’s gone in an instant; so quickly and without further goodbye you would think he’s otherwise vanished into thin air. It doesn’t surprise you all that much, because that’s how it’s always been with Owen: a man of few words, always leaving without a trace. 

It all becomes unbearable too fast as you watch the sunlight filtering into the foyer, the spot where he stood now agonisingly empty. You stare fixedly at nothing in particular, replaying his words in your head, unable to do anything but bring a fist to your mouth to stifle the oncoming rainstorm. 

As you make your way up the stairs, turning your back to the lingering ghost of Owen’s solid form, it hits you that this is what goodbye feels like. This is what it means to farewell something that could’ve worked out, if only you’d properly tried. Your knuckles whiten around the wooden banister, clutching it so tightly it’s a wonder you’re not rooted to the spot, able to move upwards at all. But you trudge onwards, shoving down every hint of his smile, his scent and his warmth, as deep as it’ll go. 

Muscle memory leads you to the edge of the bed, and you sink down onto the mattress, rumpling the crisp sheets. Good, you think, let me stay here. Let me be consumed by the inordinate grief I carry for a man who was never mine. 

It’s then that you feel the dam break, washing away your hardened resolve and with it, two years of missed opportunities and what seems like wasted yearning. Part of you screams that it’s no use dwelling on what could’ve been, but you allow yourself that luxury, if nothing but to live in delusion for just a little more. Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror doesn’t do much to help your case; not with your glassily dejected expression, your leaden limbs that hang by your side. 

“All this,” you murmur aloud, your eyes fluttering closed, “for someone who never loved you back.” 

You mull over your thoughts so forcefully that you almost miss the response. 

“Is that what you really think?”

Your body goes rigid at the sound of his voice, your frantic gaze widening as you clock him standing by the door. His name comes out as a squeak, but you say it nonetheless. “Owen?”

He jerks his chin at you, taking a step forwards, his coat and hat markedly draped over the banister. “Now who said I didn’t love you back? Nucky?”

You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Instead, you purse your lips together, praying that the shallow rise and fall of your chest is noticeable to none other than yourself. 

But it’s Owen, and nothing goes over his head. He fixates on your breathing, hyper-aware at the effect his reappearance has had on you, or more accurately, the implication laying heavy in his tone. 

He walks in, rubbing his face as he paces in front of you. He grits his teeth as he speaks, his voice dropping an octave. “For years,” he starts, seething in anguish, “I have yearned for you, in secrecy and in silence. Years.” He lets out a small, sarcastic chuckle, but the pain laid bare in his eyes fool no-one. “I have thought every day of how to tell you.”

You feel like keeling over, but this isn’t the time. Gathering whatever’s left of your internal strength, you push up off the bed to get to your feet to face him. 

Owen blinks at you, his expression inscrutable. “You bring out the good in me.”

You don’t know what this means — about whether  he’ll stay or go, but you cast aside any reservations, choosing instead to focus on the matter at hand. 

“Do you love me?” you ask, unwavering. 

“Yes.”

You drop to a whisper, taking one of his hands into your own, brushing over every callous with your thumb. You’ve never known how to say anything to him about how you feel, but his candor sparks a light, but you know what you say next is the irrevocable truth. 

“Then I am yours, Mr. Sleater. I am yours until the world — my life — decides otherwise.”

[saintmurd0ck]

I’m unsure if multiple stops is done this way >< buuuuut 🎟️ ticket for 🚇 34th St-Hudson Yards ("for years i have yearned for you, in secrecy and silence.") and 🚇 86th St (“you bring out the good in me.”) with Owen Sleater please! I’m dying 4 more content about this boiii!!

la douleur exquise

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: owen sleater x reader

warnings: kinda unrequited love (ISH), angsty owen, hurt + comfort

a/n: thank you SO much for being my first sleepover ask! this was so heartbreakingly beautiful to write, and as this is my first ever owen piece, i hope you enjoy 💗 (p.s. tagging mrs sleater, @murdock-and-the-sea)

There’s a breezeblock sinking deep into your stomach as Owen reaches for the coat that’s lived on the hatstand for the past two years. It never mattered that the hatstand sat empty most of the time; not when you always knew he was coming back. 

But today is different.

You barely register the sense of melancholic dread coursing through you, spreading outwards from the centre of your chest. Not when there are a million little things running through the abyss of your mind.

It feels like you’re gasping for air as you take in a staggering breath, doing your best to cast aside the unease carving his initials into your heart. Your voice cracks when you speak, and with it, any attempts you’ve made to ground yourself. “All packed?”

Owen’s lips twitch upwards as he nods, tightening his grip on the brim of his hat.

You’ve known for a while that this day would come, when he would inevitably have to leave Atlantic City. To go home, as he would fondly say. Home being Ireland. 

Not here. 

It couldn’t be here, unless Owen could resign himself to a life working for Nucky, being his right-hand man at best, but doing nothing else except taking orders and cutting down anyone who would get in the way. 

You swallow thickly, tears prickling your eyes as his fingers close around the door handle. You imagine instead that his hand moves away, a man on a mission to seek out his love, but he turns towards you not to then press his lips against your own, but to angle his body towards the promise of his exit. “Ma’am.”

You draw in a breath, wanting to say something, anything, to fill the now-awkward space between you. The fact that nothing comes out shatters something whole within you. He’s reverting back to your old pleasantries, because you’re more strangers-than-not, and now, you’ll have to remember him for longer than you’ve known him.

“Mr. Sleater,” you call out from your place on the stairs, not caring that the words catch in your throat, “You needn’t address me like that.” 

There’s a hitch in every syllable, one that wedges and distorts the sound coming from your mouth. But you keep going. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d call me by name. And don’t you say it’s because of manners.” 

You wait a moment. “I know you’re not capable of manners, Owen.” You let his name roll off your tongue, and for some reason, it’s this instance that feels more indulgent than any other time you’ve used it. It reminds you that you’ve grown fond of his temporary permanence, and even then, fond is too austere a word. 

He smiles sadly. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll be goin’ now.” The words echo in your mind even before he says them. “And I don’t know when I’ll be back.” 

He turns the handle, and he’s gone in an instant; so quickly and without further goodbye you would think he’s otherwise vanished into thin air. It doesn’t surprise you all that much, because that’s how it’s always been with Owen: a man of few words, always leaving without a trace. 

It all becomes unbearable too fast as you watch the sunlight filtering into the foyer, the spot where he stood now agonisingly empty. You stare fixedly at nothing in particular, replaying his words in your head, unable to do anything but bring a fist to your mouth to stifle the oncoming rainstorm. 

As you make your way up the stairs, turning your back to the lingering ghost of Owen’s solid form, it hits you that this is what goodbye feels like. This is what it means to farewell something that could’ve worked out, if only you’d properly tried. Your knuckles whiten around the wooden banister, clutching it so tightly it’s a wonder you’re not rooted to the spot, able to move upwards at all. But you trudge onwards, shoving down every hint of his smile, his scent and his warmth, as deep as it’ll go. 

Muscle memory leads you to the edge of the bed, and you sink down onto the mattress, rumpling the crisp sheets. Good, you think, let me stay here. Let me be consumed by the inordinate grief I carry for a man who was never mine. 

It’s then that you feel the dam break, washing away your hardened resolve and with it, two years of missed opportunities and what seems like wasted yearning. Part of you screams that it’s no use dwelling on what could’ve been, but you allow yourself that luxury, if nothing but to live in delusion for just a little more. Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror doesn’t do much to help your case; not with your glassily dejected expression, your leaden limbs that hang by your side. 

“All this,” you murmur aloud, your eyes fluttering closed, “for someone who never loved you back.” 

You mull over your thoughts so forcefully that you almost miss the response. 

“Is that what you really think?”

Your body goes rigid at the sound of his voice, your frantic gaze widening as you clock him standing by the door. His name comes out as a squeak, but you say it nonetheless. “Owen?”

He jerks his chin at you, taking a step forwards, his coat and hat markedly draped over the banister. “Now who said I didn’t love you back? Nucky?”

You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Instead, you purse your lips together, praying that the shallow rise and fall of your chest is noticeable to none other than yourself. 

But it’s Owen, and nothing goes over his head. He fixates on your breathing, hyper-aware at the effect his reappearance has had on you, or more accurately, the implication laying heavy in his tone. 

He walks in, rubbing his face as he paces in front of you. He grits his teeth as he speaks, his voice dropping an octave. “For years,” he starts, seething in anguish, “I have yearned for you, in secrecy and in silence. Years.” He lets out a small, sarcastic chuckle, but the pain laid bare in his eyes fool no-one. “I have thought every day of how to tell you.”

You feel like keeling over, but this isn’t the time. Gathering whatever’s left of your internal strength, you push up off the bed to get to your feet to face him. 

Owen blinks at you, his expression inscrutable. “You bring out the good in me.”

You don’t know what this means — about whether  he’ll stay or go, but you cast aside any reservations, choosing instead to focus on the matter at hand. 

“Do you love me?” you ask, unwavering. 

“Yes.”

You drop to a whisper, taking one of his hands into your own, brushing over every callous with your thumb. You’ve never known how to say anything to him about how you feel, but his candor sparks a light, but you know what you say next is the irrevocable truth. 

“Then I am yours, Mr. Sleater. I am yours until the world — my life — decides otherwise.”